what are hands?

I can't do it.

These hands don't write

Create

Form 

Shape

Make like they used to.

I sit and watch and wait for anything, something

New to come to mind.

But I worry that it won't work. 

I won't be as good as her

As him, as them making, shaping, breaking, blending

With hands of fury and fire, leaving lasting marks of legacy across clay and paper.

I am not the artist behind the work, I am just

The observer. Empty, empty hands. 

That is a lie. Hands are meant to break, blend, bend

Materials to visual these thoughts.

I can make because I am. 

I am because I think and learn and know and believe

What comes across in the highway of my years.

Their hands aren't like mine. Different lines, unique.

Fingerprints, unique. Hands, my hands shape my story.

They might not understand or ask what it means. They don't need to.

My hands, my work. I believe in the effort of my hands through 

Words

Paint 

Color 

Tone.

Do not fear the hands you have. 

Do not fear what they will say or do because of what these hands make. 

Use them, bend, break, shape, form to what you visualize.

And when you look up from what those hands have made, 

Eyes will turn up from their own and see

You, in all glory.

My hands are my instrument

I do not fear to try and try and 

Try again with what these hands can do.